


Gaman

by The_Asset6



Series: Deleted Scenes and Broken Dreams [10]
Category: Fabula Nova Crystallis: Final Fantasy, Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dark, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, More Hurt Than Comfort, Suicidal Thoughts, endgame spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-20 20:46:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Asset6/pseuds/The_Asset6
Summary: They all knew what was waiting for them at the end of their journey. It didn’t make their fate any easier to stomach. Still, at the end of all things, at least they had each other.Gaman – enduring the seemingly unbearable with patience, restraint, and dignity





	1. Sturdy and Sure

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the final story in this series. While I hope that you enjoy it, I do also want to encourage you to check the tags one last time before you continue. This is the first time I have needed to utilize archive warnings. It's no holds barred with this, so if you are uncomfortable with delving into the mindset of loss and grief, it's up to you whether you continue. 
> 
> The title of this story is incredibly important. I first heard it in a song from the musical "Allegiance," which is a phenomenal show about the internment of the Japanese and Japanese-Americans during World War II. Each chapter title will have a reference to that song. If you haven't listened to it, please hit it up on YouTube. I would argue that a more important musical and song have not been seen in a very long time.

_“I just need one…to take with me.”_

_“This is my ascension.”_

_“You guys…are the best.”_

Gladio let out a ragged cry as he swung at the Iron Giant with his king’s voice echoing in his head—a plague and a comfort all at once. It couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes since Noct left them, yet his Shield already felt the loss as though his own arm had been torn off. Grief colored everything a grim, lackluster shade of grey, and he wasn’t even _gone_ yet. At least, Gladio didn’t think he was.

They’d feel it, wouldn’t they? _Something_ would tell them that it was all over. It had been different when Insomnia initially fell and just about everybody they loved turned out to be dead; the trauma was so enormous that it was hard to fathom that the pain could be tied to one thing in particular. What were they supposed to grieve for first—their home, their king, their families, their friends, their former lives, their future selves that would never be? It happened so fast that it all hit them at once, each working through it in the only way they knew how.

Ignis had turned to logic and sense, but there was no surprise in that. His parents weren’t really a subject Gladio knew a whole lot about, but he was pretty sure that an advisor of Iggy’s caliber could only be born from an encyclopedia and a legal compendium. When times were tough, he went hunting for info. That didn’t only account for his behavior after the empire rolled in, where he’d been adamant that they had to see for themselves before they could take anyone else’s word for it; even after Noct had disappeared into the Crystal, he’d fallen back on old habits. Gladio didn’t like the idea, and Ignis was well aware of it, but he’d gone on his little hunts for intel with Talcott anyway. Sitting idly by while the world was going to shit wasn’t really his style, so Gladio wasn’t sure why he expected anything else at first. The fact remained, though, that Ignis looked for comfort in intellectual exploits when the chips were down.

Prompto, on the other hand, just got quiet. That didn’t seem like a big deal; actually, it was downright normal behavior. _Normal_ had never been a word Gladio would use to describe the prince’s awkward best friend, though. Half the time, it felt like he had some kind of battery for his mouth that never seemed to run out. Looking back on it, Gladio regretted how many times he’d told the kid to shut up or be quiet—he actually missed hearing his obnoxious outbursts now that they were tempered into the calmer, less naïve tones of the mature and the world weary. The toughest times were the quietest. Those were the moments when the light would leave Prompto’s eyes, and he’d clam up on everyone as if saying something would make him a bother. Grief, like so many other things, was an emotion he preferred to shoulder alone.

Then there was Gladio. He didn’t get quiet, nor did he go hunting for books and papers and a whole bunch of shit that looked good but didn’t actually _do_ anything to help. Nah, when Gladio was hurting, he did the total opposite.

When Gladio was hurting, he beat the hell outta stuff.

This time around, with this particular brand of misery, it appeared that the others were taking an example from him as they attacked without pause—without regret—without fail. While the Citadel still stood and their king was inside, they would defend it with their lives and anything else they had to offer.

For some reason, getting rid of Ardyn only increased the daemons’ numbers. Gladio wasn’t even talking about the small fries they’d dealt with for years: these daemons were pulling out all the stops. Everything they’d defeated or bypassed in the streets on their way here seemed to have woken back up, tugged on their big boy pants, and decided that the courtyard was the place to be. The Iron Giants, it turned out, were hardly the worst of their concerns.

Gladio didn’t give a shit. Right now, there was a certain peace that came from losing himself to the flow of battle. With every slice of his sword, every swing of his fist, every dodge and swipe and kick—with each action, he descended a bit further into his own personal hell. And why shouldn’t he? The Astrals had decided that he wasn’t allowed to do his job, that it wasn’t his place to be the Shield he was supposed to be. The one thing that had mattered to him more than anything—protecting Noct—was something he could no longer do. He’d sent his king off to die alone on some cold, torn up throne that he didn’t even _want_. Hell was where he belonged, and Gladio was quite pleased to stay there.

Ignis and Prompto were somewhere in this mess. He couldn’t see them, but their shouts of exertion and pain reminded him that he wasn’t alone as he offered up his own blood to protect what little he could of his charge’s mission, if not the man himself.

_“Hey, Gladio. Your dad… I’m grateful to him.”_

_“The hell is this so hard?”_

_“I am over it. I’m here, aren’t I!?”_

Another swing, this time colliding with the Iron Giant’s knee. Its deafening roar rent the air as it fell forward; the ground shook so hard that Gladio nearly lost his footing and had to use his sword to prop himself up. Ordinarily, it wouldn’t even have made him blink, but there was so much movement and vibration and noise from the enormous host they were up against that his feet weren’t as steady as he would have liked. Oh, well—he’d dealt with worse.

Before the daemon had a chance to ease back onto its feet, Gladio was lunging forward to stab his greatsword through its ugly face. It was only with a firm hand and a hell of a lot of luck that he didn’t lose his grip when the blade caught in his opponent’s flesh, the latter jerking backwards from the blow. Gladio was yanked along for the ride, his feet leaving the ground for half a second, and roughly threw all of his weight in the opposite direction. In an instant, his sword was released, his back hit the pavement, and the daemon was wheeling around above him. The blade of its giant weapon rotated overhead just as he rolled out of the way, using his impetus to regain his footing and shift back to the offensive as soon as the daemon’s sword was embedded in the ground.

It was too easy at that point to hop on for the world’s weirdest chocobo-back ride, since the Iron Giant was bent low while it tried to break free. By the time it managed to rearm itself, Gladio was holding tight to its shoulders with one hand and driving his own sword through its thick neck with the other.

There was an ear-shattering roar, then the creature fell forward and was still.

Bracing for impact was pretty useless when your enemy had a tendency of turning into black ooze the second it was defeated, so Gladio and his sword were both sent flying in the process. This time, he didn’t have a chance to maneuver himself to land well. So much for all that training.

Instead, he hit the ground so hard that his teeth rattled in his skull. Pain flared up his spine, and all the wind was knocked out of his lungs for just long enough that he was rendered immobile.

That was the only reason he saw it.

_“The time has come.”_

It was like nothing he’d ever witnessed before. If it weren’t for countless years of education and all the damn times he’d seen those statues around the city, Gladio didn’t think he would have recognized what was happening when white blurs of light shot through the darkness towards the Citadel, towards the throne…

Towards Noct.

The Old Wall had been summoned by the only person who could do it. The end was at hand.

“Gladio, watch out!”

Prompto’s warning cut through the haze of grief and pain (not just physical, either) that had descended upon Gladio, but there wasn’t enough time for him to move. Not when another Iron Giant loomed overhead, its blade already swinging down like the scythe of a reaper—

And there were flashes in the distance as white light erupted within the Citadel, over and over and over and _over_ —

And Gladio closed his eyes, prepared to die with his king before he’d cower in the face of his own demise—

But it didn’t come. There was no sharp slice, no excruciating pain, no blessed knowledge that he was going to precede his charge into the afterlife the way his _duty_ dictated he should.

The end wouldn’t take him yet. Gladio wasn’t sure whether to be happy about it.

His eyes popped open just as the daemon screeched in something like surprise, its towering figure staggering to the side with a familiar dagger poking out of its leg. Gladio didn’t get a chance to appreciate the fact that Ignis was a goddamn miracle before a tuft of blond hair slid into his line of sight, firing off a starshell that sent the Iron Giant rearing backwards.

_“Nice. You’re being helpful for a change.”_

“You all right, big guy?” he asked, his voice too shaky as he pulled Gladio upright. The latter didn’t exactly need the help he offered, but given that Prompto had just saved his life, he figured he could at least give him that much.

“Fine.”

“Thought you were a goner there…”

_If only._

Gladio decided not to say that, though. Instead, he smirked wryly and grunted, “C’mon, it’s _me_ we’re talkin’ about here.”

That seemed to cheer Prompto up enough to put something resembling a smile on his face. Gladio would count that as a small victory, whether they won today or not.

It was a passing thought, one he probably shouldn’t have bothered with given what was going on around them. Maybe he was tempting fate; the Astrals had proven to be a big enough bunch of assholes that he really should’ve kept his mouth shut. But no, he just _had_ to say something—and he paid for it almost immediately. The moment they turned back to the battle, Gladio scanning the ground for his fallen greatsword while Prompto readied his gun, it felt like someone had ripped open his chest and torn out his heart.

Because Ignis was standing not far off, a dagger gripped tightly in one hand while he reached for the other—the one that was still lodged in the daemon’s leg. The one that should have magically reappeared in his grasp the way it always had and presumably always would.

The dagger that didn’t respond to Ignis’s summoning.

Prompto seemed to realize the implications half a second after Gladio did, his firearm dipping as though he’d suddenly lost the strength to hold it. “N-No…”

_Yes._

Much as he didn’t want to think about it—didn’t want to even entertain the notion that…that…

He couldn’t deny it. The words wouldn’t form, but there was no other explanation for the fact that Ignis’s weapon was ignoring his silent call, wiggling back and forth in the Iron Giant’s leg as it regained its footing and set its sights on the owner. There was no excuse for Gladio’s greatsword not appearing in his hand when he reached for it; rather, it innocently reflected the lights of the Citadel where it had landed at the bottom of the steps.

Their king was gone, and with him, their access to his magic.

For a second, Gladio thought that this was it. Ignis had bought them a few minutes, yes, but now they were truly going to die. There was no sword in his hand, no voice in the back of his head reminding him that he had a duty to fulfill. It was the first time in his life that he felt utterly and completely helpless— _worthless_.

When Insomnia fell, he knew he could at least protect their prince until he had a chance to take back what was his and become a king in more than just name.

When everything went to hell in Altissia, he knew it was up to him to keep everyone on the right track until they figured out what the hell they were going to do with the steaming pile of shit they’d been served.

When his charge vanished for ten years, he knew that his duty was to protect what he could so that there would be a kingdom when he returned.

What was he meant to do now? Without Noctis, what was there to protect? What was stopping him from just taking a seat and letting the daemons do what they would? The Six had doomed him to failure, doomed him to being one of the few Shields who lived to see the death of their king—the death of his little brother. There was no reward in living, not like this. Seeing the sun? Their sun was gone now, extinguished inside the Citadel just like the flame inside Gladio’s chest. The ball of light that would rise in the morning was nothing more than that—it would help people to see, and it would keep the daemons from coming out. But there would be no warmth in it, no joy. They’d get their sun back, but the cost was too great to appreciate it.

Was that really the way he wanted to spend the rest of his life? Why _not_ just stand there and let the darkness finally take him?

Ignis flipped backward to narrowly escape the arc of the daemon’s blade, and Prompto was suddenly beside him, firing off a few shots to buy them time. All the while, Gladio simply watched as more Iron Giants and every other foul thing imaginable rose up out of the ground to kill them. He could let it happen. He could end it all—the only thing he had to do was nothing.

But…

_“Prompto. Gladio. Ignis. I leave it to you.”_

_Dammit, Noct._

Before he had a chance to think through his decision, Gladio’s hand was closing around the hilt of his greatsword. Its weight was suddenly greater than it had ever seemed before, not that he was going to let that stop him; he’d benched way heavier stuff than a stupid sword. It was a good thing, too, because he would need every ounce of stamina that years of training had afforded him to heft the weapon into position and throw it straight at the Iron Giant’s hand where it was aiming a swipe towards Prompto.

A resounding _clang_ erupted as the two made contact. The daemon’s hand went in one direction, the sword in the other, and Gladio was already moving. Reaching out to catch his weapon as it soared past him, he used its momentum to redirect it back towards the monster. The result nearly knocked him off balance, but it was worth it to see the Iron Giant stumble around with a huge gash in its back. Beyond it, he could hear Prompto firing shot after shot, some of the bullets ricocheting off into the darkness while others struck their mark with deadly accuracy. As he was keeping the daemon busy, Gladio reached down to wrench Ignis’s dagger out—which took a hell of a lot more effort than usual, he noted with a pang of sadness—and dodged out of the way right before a Deathclaw’s tail came careening straight at him.

Luckily, it hit the Iron Giant instead.

 _Un_ luckily, that sent it falling forward with Prompto in its path.

“Hey, Prompto—heads up!” he shouted, already running in the hopes of getting to him before it was too late. It would be a stretch, but Prompto would have done the same for him.

It was Ignis who got there first, however, diving in to knock Prompto off his feet and out of the way just as the daemon crashed down onto the pavement. Seeing its now vulnerable prey, the Deathclaw didn’t bother waiting for the Iron Giant to regain its feet and instead climbed right on top of the struggling monster.

 _Just goes to show these pieces of shit don’t appreciate_ anything _._

With his quarry fully focused on Ignis and Prompto, Gladio saw his window of opportunity and took it. The Iron Giant was all but incapacitated, unable to do more than wriggle around impatiently with the heavier daemon on its back. Forcing himself into a sprint, Gladio leapt onto its head and pushed off with a pained grunt as his spine protested the angle of his spin. He didn’t pay it a damn bit of attention, though, arching his grip and bringing his greatsword around to slash across the Deathclaw’s front legs. The latter let out an enraged roar when the blade got stuck—all part of the plan—and he hopped up to plant his feet against the flat of his sword so that he could jam Ignis’s wayward dagger right into its face. …If you could call it that.

In that instant, something happened that Gladio couldn’t explain. There was a sudden vibration, a shudder that ran beneath the pavement, and a sound unlike anything he’d ever heard pierced his ears until he was pretty sure he was going deaf. If he had to describe it as anything, he’d liken it to the screeching that MTs made when you killed them—the screaming of the humans they once were, that is. Only this time, the noise was amplified—it was so loud that only a miracle could have kept the world itself from shattering.

Everything after that was…fuzzy.

Gladio remembered hitting the ground. He recalled hands reaching for him, as well as his own reaching back. In his mind’s eye, he would always be able to see the way he clung to Ignis and Prompto, equal parts afraid and grateful that the world finally, _blissfully_ , appeared to be coming to an end…

 

***

 

When he woke up, the first thing Gladio saw was a star.

Then another.

And another.

It wasn’t much, just a patch of clear sky amidst the dark clouds, but it was there all the same. After a moment, he realized he knew that particular constellation. Back when they used to camp (despite complaints about the hard ground and open air), those stars had smiled down on them. Their light was so bright, so varied, that it looked like there was a dim haze of pink behind them more appropriate for the dawn than the darkness. It was a marvel to behold. He’d forgotten just how radiant the sky could look at night.

Then again, after ten years, that was pretty much a given.

A groan beside him drew his attention, and he glanced over to see Prompto pushing himself onto his knees and rubbing his head with a pained expression. On his other side, Ignis was already sitting up and seemed to have been awake for a while.

 _Some things never change_ , he thought dryly.

“The hell happened?” moaned Prompto with a wince. There was a jagged cut on his temple, running straight from his hairline down past his ear; the bleeding appeared to have stopped, but the skin around it was still an angry red.

Ignis, who looked like he was merely ruffled more than anything else, faced forward with a slight crease between his eyebrows. “It…would appear that our battle is over.”

That did it. Somehow, it was that comment that pierced through the numb shock that had kept Gladio from feeling anything other than that dim sort of curiosity over the stars, and it suddenly hit him—they were _alive_.

More importantly, the daemons _weren’t_. The courtyard was empty, all traces of their enemies apparently having disappeared while they were unconscious. In fact, it was pretty unnerving how… _ordinary_ everything looked. As the clouds dissipated overhead, allowing more and more stars to shine through, everything around them shifted until Gladio wasn’t really sure if they’d ever left at all. There was no debris; the ground wasn’t churned up from the daemons’ claws and blades. All the lamps were lit, the friendly glow illuminating an emptiness that was both disconcerting as well as comforting.

The daemons were gone.

The sky was clearing.

Dawn was on the horizon.

_Which means…_

“Not just yet,” Gladio murmured, staggering to his feet and turning towards the Citadel. “Still got one more fight ahead of us.”

Scrambling upright, Prompto followed his gaze. His apprehensive gulp was audible. “R-Right…”

Neither of them made a move to advance, though. Gladio couldn’t identify what it was that held him in place, so close and yet so far from where they needed to go. Well, that was a lie—he knew _exactly_ what it was, not that he was ready to give it words yet. Doing so would only hasten the moment when the numb, shocked hole in his chest would fill up with grief. Right now, he didn’t have to feel anything because he didn’t have to _see_ it. The knowledge was there, but he could pretend for just a few seconds longer. If he knew Prompto the way he thought he did, then it wasn’t just him.

Ignis was the one who forced their hands—go figure. Unlike them, he couldn’t take a moment to just appreciate the sight of their home before them, battered but having weathered the storm nevertheless. Standing still had to be torture, delaying the inevitable with no real reward. So, much as Gladio thought Prompto could use another minute or two ( _just_ Prompto, of course), he couldn’t fault Ignis for brushing himself off, clearing his throat, and starting forward.

“Come along, then,” he ordered in a voice much stronger than his expression warranted. “We mustn’t keep His Majesty waiting.”

Snorting humorlessly, Gladio sighed, “No. Wouldn’t wanna do that.”

None of them commented on the fact that Noct really wouldn’t give a shit how late they were. Hell, any other time, he’d probably welcome the opportunity to take a nap when they couldn’t give him crap over it. He wasn’t the kind of king to sit around waiting for his retainers to drag their sorry asses up the stairs and move back through the lobby like ghosts.

Good thing, too, because Gladio was positive they looked pretty damn pathetic. Although there hadn’t been any outward signs earlier, he noticed the way Ignis was favoring his left leg; more than once, Prompto reached out to steady him when he swayed slightly on his feet. It wasn’t enough to send him toppling over, but it was obvious that he could use a potion sooner rather than later.

 _Later_ would have to do, though. They’d already put this off long enough.

So, they ignored their injuries. They ignored their slowly shattering hearts. With their heads held high, they walked tall towards the Citadel just as their king requested. There wasn’t any helping the way their feet dragged the ground, heavy with the weight of their final burden, but they didn’t stop—not once.

Cruel irony dictated that the journey to the throne room had to take way less time than it had earlier. For some reason, the knowledge that it would be Noct waiting for them rather than Ardyn made the lobby smaller and the elevator faster. It felt like only a few seconds had passed before they were standing outside the same doors where they’d paused earlier for Noct to choose one last keepsake to take with him.

That was where they hesitated once again, even Ignis. When Gladio glanced sideways at him, it was to see that the advisor’s face was pale behind the determined set of his jaw. Decades of loyal friendship and service had all culminated in this moment, and Gladio knew he couldn’t force Ignis to be the strong one this time. He’d sacrificed everything for Noct—for all of them—so the least Gladio could do was take this one load off his shoulders.

Breathing in as deeply as his lungs would allow, the Shield of the last king of Lucis stepped forward and opened the doors to the throne room.

He didn’t let himself break stride after he entered, knowing that if he did, he very likely wouldn’t make it all the way to the throne that already held his worst nightmares. Instead, he watched as his mind painted a different picture: for just that moment, he pretended that the council was settled on either side of the chamber, his father smiling down at him where he was stepping forward to accept the honor of serving the King of Kings. Perhaps, in a just world, those eyes would still be watching from whatever the Six thought passed for heaven. If his father were here with him, that would explain how Gladio found the strength to cross the chamber and ascend the dais before the throne.

It wasn’t until he reached that spot that he raised his eyes to the seat of power itself, his breath catching in his throat and all his resolve wavering. Distantly, he heard a muffled gasp that seemed to come from miles away. It didn’t matter—nothing did. The important thing was that Gladio was here for his king, and that his king was here waiting.

Noct had been patient. Ten years ago, they would have found him pacing around the room with his arms folded and that surly frown on his face; their entrance would have been heralded with a sarcastic remark, not silence. A chuckle bubbled up in Gladio’s throat unbidden, transforming into a choked sob when it reached his lips. Those days had died long ago. It was only fitting, then, that Noct had gone to join them.

If it weren’t for the fact that his father’s sword had impaled his chest, pinning him to his seat, it would have looked like he was sleeping. That would be classic Noct, after all—getting his throne only to fall asleep five minutes later. There was a stillness, though, that swept away any delusions Gladio may have let himself harbor and turned the peaceful image into nothing more than a macabre imitation of better days. The way his charge was draped over the sword, his hair obscuring his face as his head hung low, was anything but natural.

Gladio wasn’t aware that he’d moved until he was staring _down_ at his king rather than _up_. Somewhere beyond the veil that seemed to have been draped over his senses, he registered movement and knew that he wasn’t alone. Still, his hand was trembling violently as it reached out to touch the hilt of King Regis’s sword.

There was nothing in that moment that could give him the strength to remove it. Try as he might, his fingers simply wouldn’t close around the handle, disobeying his every silent command. This _one thing_ , this final show of loyalty to his king, and Gladio simply couldn’t bring himself to do it.

He was in pain.

He was weak.

But he wasn’t alone.

Prompto was suddenly there at his side, looking like he’d rather jump out the window and shatter into a million pieces on the ground far below than grip the hilt between his hands the way he did. It was obvious that he was at the end of his rope, just like Gladio, and they shared a nod that spoke all the words that were needed right now: _make it quick_.

They didn’t have much choice in the end, just like everything else they’d done since leaving Insomnia at the beginning of their long journey. As soon as Prompto tugged the sword from its grotesque sheath, all of them ignoring the wet squelching noise it made, the king fell forward. Gladio went immediately to his knees so that Noct collapsed into his waiting embrace, hugging him close.

The emotion that welled up in the organ just beneath Noct’s cheek was unfair. It wasn’t right—they’d _won_. They’d done what the Astrals wanted, and none of it made a damn bit of difference. It wouldn’t bring rhythm back into that heart, breath back into those lungs, or a smile back to that face. As it frequently did, winning felt an awful lot like losing.

Gladio didn’t know how he ended up on the floor beside the throne, cradling Noct to his chest as though he could keep him warm all on his own. Somewhere along the line, Prompto had abandoned King Regis’s sword and come to join them, Ignis doing the same on his other side. Now that they were here, it was like a dam had burst, and none of them could be bothered to keep their distance anymore—physically _or_ emotionally. The ever composed Ignis had tears silently streaming down his cheek from his one good eye, unashamed and unabashed. His fingers were twined gently with Noct’s, while the latter’s other hand was tucked up under Prompto’s chin.

And there they sat, reveling in the familiarity of closeness that they would never know again in this life. No words could express their shared grief now that it had finally hit them head on, so they spoke none lest they shatter the fragile, brittle walls they’d raised to survive not the battle, but this very moment. If they spoke, if they moved, if they even _thought_ —it would make it _real_.

Time, however, was as cruel as the gods.

Ignis was the one who noticed it first. Gladio felt more than saw him stiffen, his eyebrows furrowing underneath the grime of their hard-fought war. There was a dread to that expression that made him reluctant to ask, especially when he was sure he already knew. It was hard to miss the way the floor was beginning to warm even as their king—their friend, their brother—grew cold. It was more than Gladio could take, and he refused to feel guilty for the momentary weakness that had him burying his face in Noct’s hair to deny himself the confirmation of sight.

It was Prompto who finally put their thoughts into words, clutching Noct’s hand so tight that it should have hurt—if there was any true justice in this world.

“Look, buddy,” he whispered, his voice wobbling and cracking around the tears rolling down his cheeks. “Sun’s comin’ up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I believe the boys lived. If you'd like my dissertation on why, just let me know. ;)


	2. Keep Faith and Endure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for minor character death. Please see the end notes for more information.
> 
> Also, any incorrect spelling and grammar in the first section of this chapter is intentional. You'll see why. ;)

See, it was days like today that made Cid wonder why the hell he was still alive.

Every time he thought getting old couldn’t get any worse, his body seemed bound and determined to prove him wrong. The ache in his back was nothing new; he’d been dealing with that for so long he could almost forget about it. Till he couldn’t, of course, but no use dwelling on the obvious. As the years passed, though, more of his limbs decided his spine had the right idea—that was the annoying part. Sometimes his left elbow would up and quit on him, usually when he was holding something because it was a right son of a bitch. Every winter, when the only way to tell the season was how goddamn cold it was, his knees barely got him from his bed to the kitchen and back. Those were the times when he didn’t mind living with half the Crownsguard: there was always somebody hanging around to give an old man a hand.

Unless it was that Talcott boy, though. That kid was too enthusiastic for his own damn good.

The last few days had been a little easier to put up with, even if all his limbs felt like they’d finally decided he wasn’t worth the effort. Cindy always brought him a special kind of sunlight whenever she visited.

Not having the garage to look after was driving him crazier than the hell he woke up to each morning. Cid wasn’t ashamed to admit it neither. How the hell did anyone expect him to just leave everything behind without putting up a fuss? It wasn’t like nobody needed him round here. Sure, every now and again there would be a hunter who popped by with a sword that needed fixing—or, if he was real lucky, some major upgrading—and he’d designed a hell of a setup for Ignis to cook with when he was in town. Other than that, though, he spent most of his days just taking up space and _thinking_.

That was always the trap—thinking. Back when he was a young’un, he remembered his old man pissing and moaning over all the stuff he missed. If he heard that his daddy’s childhood used to be so much better one more time, he thought he was gonna snap. Now that he was in the same spot, even a few years past when his old man kicked the bucket, Cid had a whole new appreciation for what he’d been talking about. Days came when he couldn’t make this bag of bones sit up straight, so he’d just stare at the ceiling and remember all the good things he missed.

Sitting outside the garage in his chair. Smiling while Cindy handled things and offering up some advice to their customers—always well-intentioned, of course.

Jawing with Weskham at that fancy-pants restaurant of his. Telling off the people who looked at him funny for his baggy jeans and grease-stained jacket. ( _Bunch’a blue-blooded stuffed shirts._ )

Watching the sun rise. Watching it set.

Wondering whether he should get his ass outta that chair and go see Reggie before he didn’t have any more chances left.

Yeah, getting old was a right bitch. If it weren’t for Cindy and the few people who would actually care that he wasn’t around, he’d’ve been hoping for the end a hell of a lot sooner. But his grease-monkey granddaughter had already lost enough in life, and those hunters still needed their weapons seen to, so he’d stick around for a spell. Not like he had a whole lot of other options to choose from.

“Paw-paw? You up?”

And speaking of the little spitfire—although she wasn’t so little no more—there she was, all ready to greet the day when Cid would’ve preferred to roll back over and fall asleep again. If the nerve in his right leg wasn’t pinching too much to let him, that was.

_Ain’t I a sight?_

“Quit’cher shoutin’,” he grumbled as Cindy opened the door and popped her head in with that smile he pretended didn’t affect him as much as it did. “I’m up.”

Nodding in a satisfied sort of way, his granddaughter bounced in and made herself at home at the foot of his bed. “Good. Got some fellas outside lookin’ to upgrade, and I didn’t wanna tell ‘em the best mechanic this side’a Cauthess wasn’t up to it.”

Now _that_ made Cid laugh. He could hide his grimace at the sharp pain that shot up his knee to places he didn’t talk about in polite company.

“Don’t need to smooth talk me. We both know I ain’t been the best mechanic this side’a _anything_ in years. I think that title goes to _you_ now.”

“Aw, that ain’t true,” Cindy argued, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. There was a wicked gleam them when she looked back at him and added, “Now, if we’re talkin’ ‘bout _cars_ …”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cid guffawed with a dismissive wave of his hand and a cough that never seemed to quit these days. “Y’already got my compliment. Diggin’ for more ain’t gonna get you nowhere.”

Sighing in mock disappointment, his best girl hopped back to her feet and headed for the window. “Darn. A girl can’t catch a break ‘round these parts.”

A _break_ , no, but there were a lotta other things Cid was pretty sure she could have if she put her mind to it. Even with all the refugees piled in from who the hell knew where, pickings were slim. It had been a running joke between them that one of these young fellas would sweep her off her feet and her old man would be forgotten. Maybe it was a bit more than a joke on his side, but it made Cindy laugh and promise him that no boy would ever get in the way of her seeing him. Cid remembered saying the same thing about a fine young lady to his mother back in the day, and he’d been just as wrong as he knew Cindy was, too.

But he could keep fooling himself into believing her for now. So far, nobody had caught her eye; she was too focused on that garage to be looking at anyone who showed any interest. Hell, that blond kid who used to tag along with Reggie’s boy would’ve done anything to get her attention away from the Regalia for a hot minute. Never worked, poor young’un. Cid had to get a kick out of it, though.

From the looks of things, he _wasn’t_ going to find today anywhere near as funny. Cindy was already reaching for the heavy curtains they’d put up to block out the city lights at night and pulling them back, so trying to get a few more minutes of shut-eye apparently wasn’t on the menu. Cid couldn’t be too turned off the idea, though; it’d give him something to do with his hands and hopefully shut his brain up at the same time. It was worth a shot, anyway.

“Guess we’d better get this show on the road,” he grunted, stretching out his legs and silently ordering them to pull their shit together. “These fellas say what it is they wanna fix up?”

Cindy didn’t answer—hell, it didn’t look like she’d even heard him. He counted that as a blessing a few seconds later when he swung his legs over the side of the bed only to whine at the way his back seemed to rip in half. What he wouldn’t give for some of those fancy surgeons with their weird tools, the kind you only found in Insomnia back when the place wasn’t a cesspit for daemons. Cid would never say it in front of Cindy, knowing she’d only worry about him, but it was getting to the point where he wondered just how much longer he could keep up his tinkering. Not long, if he had to guess.

Usually, the tiniest noise from him over his back or his legs or his _life_ had Cindy running to help. This time, all he had to look at was her back where she was frozen in the window with the curtain held aside a couple inches. It wasn’t enough space for Cid to see out, but he was getting the feeling he probably didn’t want to know what she was looking at.

“Hey,” he barked to draw her away from whatever it was that had her so spooked. “Thought you said we didn’t wanna keep these fellas waitin’?”

“P-Paw-paw…”

Uh oh. He knew that tone. It was never good.

Groaning with the effort (and pain, _dammit_ ) of hauling his ass onto his feet and making them hold it, Cid staggered forward a few steps and grunted, “What’s wrong?”

“N-Nothin’,” Cindy breathed so quietly his old ears almost didn’t catch it. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“The hell you starin’ at, then?”

Whatever it was stole the words right off Cindy’s tongue. All she seemed able to do was shake her head with a hand over her mouth. That didn’t sit right with Cid at all—he hated when there was something he couldn’t fix. And even though she said nothing was wrong, it was pretty damn clear something needed fixing.

So, Cid reached forward and yanked back the curtains, expecting to see the usual stupid shit going on out there. Some of the little thugs that didn’t get how important it was to be nice when everyone was stuck in one place would sometimes pick a fight they couldn’t win and end up chucking their lunch in a back alley. It was probably something like that, in which case Cid would be happy to tell them to get their no-good asses off his street. They could take that nonsense someplace else.

That wasn’t what waited outside that window, though.

“Paw-paw, that’s—“

“I see it.”

The sun was peeking over the distant horizon with the hangdog look of someone who knew they were late to the party, and for the first time in ten years, Cid felt young again.

 

***

 

“Biggs. Wedge. How’re we coming, boys?”

“Just about ready to shove off, Lady A. We’ll give you a holler as soon as the rest of ‘em are on board.”

Shaking her head, Aranea disconnected the radio and turned back towards the windshield of her red transport. This rescue op was taking longer than she’d originally anticipated, and that was never a good thing.

Why did it _always_ have to be that idiot Dave? He was one more screw-up away from her telling the guy he wasn’t allowed to leave Lestallum anymore at this rate. It felt like every other week that she and her men got called out to pick up whatever group of poor saps decided they would follow Dave out to take down some daemon infestation or other. His heart was in the right place, but he was a few gysahl greens short of a salad. That sort of harmless incompetence was fine under normal circumstances. In the long night? It was more likely to get you killed.

Well, you or whoever was unlucky enough to drag your ass out of trouble.

They’d come to Dave’s rescue approximately two hundred thirty-seven times in the last ten years. Not that Aranea was counting. She wasn’t—she simply marked a tally on the wall in permanent marker. Why waste the words when she could yank the hunter in here and just point? That usually bought them a month or two before he started thinking about going out again, at least.

Then again, maybe she shouldn’t be complaining. As the years wore on and the people in outlying areas either found their way to an outpost or died trying, there wasn’t enough business to keep a search and rescue operation running. Those first few months of darkness had been more demanding than all her years as a mercenary combined. She’d lost count of how many people they ferried from all over Eos to what had quickly become the most densely populated city in the world. Accordo had been a mess after that Leviathan debacle, and evacuation became their first priority when the daemons came out to play. Aranea couldn’t exactly say that living on an island struck her as a good idea, not after seeing just how many people didn’t make it and chose to drown as a viable alternative to getting their insides torn out by literal monsters. If she wasn’t perfectly capable of fighting off the hordes on her own, she probably would have done the same.

Niflheim was practically a lost cause. Most of the civilians who were left after Zegnautus went to hell were either infected with the Starscourge or already dead. That didn’t mean she hadn’t given it her all, however; along with Biggs and Wedge, plus a few hunters who didn’t hold a grudge, they’d spent weeks sifting through the residential areas picking up stragglers. The results had been pretty depressing, but it was something.

If there was one thing Aranea didn’t bother doing, it was counting how many people they saved. Nobody needed that information, not when it would just go to your head. It was far more useful to remind herself—and Biggs and Wedge when they got a little too big for their britches—that the ones they _couldn’t_ get to in time far outnumbered the ones they could.

They were just lucky today. Eventually, they probably wouldn’t be, and Dave would be shit out of luck.

The heavy clanking of boots against metal grating announced Biggs and Wedge’s arrival, and they appeared a moment later with the same put-upon expressions they usually wore whenever they went on a wild Dave chase.

“We all set?” she asked wryly, not bothering to comment. They could hurl verbal abuses later over a few drinks.

“Ready to depart,” confirmed Biggs as he settled into the pilot’s seat. “Had a pretty big crowd waiting for us down there.”

Snorting lightly, Aranea murmured, “Go figure.”

“Noticed something strange down on the ground, though,” Wedge cut in.

Unlike Biggs, he didn’t look annoyed. That automatically set Aranea on edge. It wasn’t that those two were predictable—actually, no, that was exactly how it was. If she didn’t know any better, she would’ve thought they were twins or something. Whatever one felt, the other usually wasn’t far off.

“Go on,” she prompted him, folding her arms over her chest expectantly.

Wedge shrugged. “No daemons.”

That _could_ be called strange, she supposed, if you didn’t count the fact that there was apparently a big group of hunters on the ground. They’d called for aid because they ran out of _gas_ ; they hadn’t said anything about being under attack.

Before Aranea had a chance to point out that little detail, Biggs glanced up from the controls to add, “Not a one as far as the eye can see.”

…Okay, now _that_ sounded suspicious.

“Let’s get airborne,” she ordered immediately.

Biggs and Wedge were instantly in motion, not daring to disobey a direct command from their commodore. It didn’t seem to matter how long they were out of the military; they still saw her as a superior officer. They even controlled their own small armies of hunters now. If anything, _they_ were the ones in charge. It wasn’t often that they went on these operations together. They just happened to be in the same place at the same time to answer the call on this particular occasion.

Aranea couldn’t say she was complaining about their complete subjugation, though. They were their own commanders now, and it wasn’t like she was a commodore anymore with no empire to fight for. Still, they fell into a familiar routine that was eons more comfortable than three equally ranked officers vying for control. That tiny part of her that was capable of feeling nostalgic—the one she never told anyone about because it wasn’t any of their damn business—missed the old days.

It was a real blast from the past when Biggs and Wedge issued their usual announcements to the passengers over the intercom (something to the effect of hanging on to your ass and staying the hell away from the loading bay in case this ancient rust bucket decided it didn’t want to stay closed anymore), and then they were soaring straight up into the air.

If it took five whole seconds for them to come to terms with what they were seeing, Aranea would retire.

Just like they’d said, there wasn’t a daemon to be found _anywhere_. She hadn’t noticed when they landed, but the area beneath them was completely dark. _Everything_ was dark, of course; this was different, though. There weren’t any bombs glowing from the shadows or flaming swords where Red Giants were lumbering around. Even the snaga daemons—those obnoxious little bastards—couldn’t be seen by their glowing purple attacks. This was a deeper darkness, uninhabited and unbroken.

Because shadows were always the darkest before the dawn, and the pink glow on the horizon was heralding in a new one.

“You getting a look at this?” gasped Biggs, leaning over the console to squint at the obvious sunrise as if he might be imagining it. Ten years without one kept Aranea from coming up with a sarcastic remark. She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t just as awestruck, after all.

Yeah, she was getting a good look, all right. A damn good look. From the muffled shouts below deck, she’d say everyone else was, too.

A brilliant sunrise amidst a sea of fluffy white clouds. That’s what they could see from where they were hovering above the rapidly lightening ground. Trees came into view, towering over grass that looked green instead of the strange, dull shade of grey that everything seemed to be painted in these days. The pillar of rock that was all that remained of the Disc of Cauthess stood like a sentinel, its peak splitting the light so that it shone in every direction. Distant towns—or what remained of them—were illuminated; Aranea could even make out the spire of the power plant in Lestallum, which you could rarely see through the haze of photophilic particles that constantly clouded the air.

That _used_ to constantly cloud the air.

“Well, what do you know?” she mused with a smile, more to herself than her men. They were too busy hugging it out to listen, anyway. “They actually did it.”

 

***

 

Hammerhead was buzzing with activity for the first time in…well, as long as Talcott could remember. It was only ever this busy when daemons were spotted too close to the fence, and even then the air was filled with more of a charged tension than anything else. This was totally different. This was the culmination of a decade’s worth of pain and suffering finally finding release.

This was the sunrise.

Talcott wished he’d been the first to notice. Instead he’d been hunting here and there for Umbra, who His Majesty had entrusted to his care until he returned from Insomnia. If it were possible, he’d think that dog was pure magic; that seemed like the only explanation for how he’d gone from resting placidly at Talcott’s feet one moment to completely vanishing the next. He’d searched everywhere—the garage, Takka’s, the store, even out back where there were guard posts and absolutely no food to entice a canine—but it was like Umbra was just…gone.

Then the shouting had started, and for a split second, he was convinced that he messed up. The worst scenario played out before his mind’s eye: running back around to find one of the outbound hunter’s vehicles had run over King Noctis’s dog or the like. Wouldn’t that be the perfect way to show His Majesty that Talcott was worth just as much as his grandfather had hoped he would be? All that work, all that training with the Marshal—all so that he could totally screw up at the first opportunity.

When he trudged back towards the front gates, taking his time so he could put off the inevitable for as long as possible, it was to find that the yelling wasn’t about a dead dog. Hunters were rushing out of buildings and trucks, pointing at the sky like they’d never seen it before.

And they _hadn’t_ , not in so long that they could hardly remember the warmth of the sun on their skin or the way it lit everything in hues of orange and pink when it first appeared in the morning. But that was what was happening right here, right now: a friendly golden face had ascended above the distant mountains, casting shadows that were nothing compared to what they’d been living in all this time. Just like that, the world exploded into colors that were vibrant enough to have Talcott’s eyes tearing up—not that that was the only reason.

It was more than just him, although he definitely held it together better than some of the others. Maybe it was because he’d only been a kid when the world went dark and had spent just about half his life in endless night, but the older hunters were a mess of emotions. Some of the toughest, strongest men were on their knees, sobbing openly because they were too afraid to cover their eyes for fear that the sun would disappear again. Total strangers were patting each other on the back and holding on for dear life; praises to the Six that had never been said issued from more than one person’s mouth.

That part was something Talcott couldn’t really get behind. Sure, the Six had helped, but it was King Noctis who’d done all the legwork. He’d learned about the prophecy in his excursions with Ignis; this sunrise was because His Majesty had returned to save them from the hell they’d been living in.

No one cried out his name. Nobody even knew he was back.

But they _would_. Soon enough, the rumors would spread and people would start moving into the Crown City. Lucis would be rebuilt, greater and more powerful than before now that there was no evil empire to hold them back. Everything would return to the way it should have been in the first place, with King Noctis on the throne and light restored to the world. Maybe they wouldn’t even need the Wall anymore. Talcott had to admit that the idea of remaining inside Insomnia now that they knew what the rest of Lucis was like would be pretty stifling; that was something he’d need to speak with His Majesty about, although he was almost positive that the king would agree with him.

Already, Talcott was thinking of the ways in which he could be of service. The daemons that had surrounded Hammerhead for years were gone, vanishing before the sun had even begun to rise. If there was no need for daemon hunters anymore, maybe there were other jobs he could do. Parts of the kingdom would have to be rebuilt and homes found for those with nowhere else to go; Lestallum couldn’t hold the majority of the population forever. Then there was Accordo and what remained of Niflheim, getting their citizens back home to oversee reconstruction in their own right…

But he was getting ahead of himself. For now, he had one simple job to do for his king. The rest could be dealt with once next steps were decided.

Talcott kept his eyes skyward as he retreated through the throng of people who had come out to gaze upon the brilliant sunrise, glancing down every now and again for a grey-and-white ball of fluff. There were so many pairs of legs obstructing his view that he wondered if he’d be able to spot Umbra between them anyway. The endeavor was starting to feel futile after a few minutes had passed with no success; that niggling sensation of failure sprung up in his chest again at the idea that his first words to his king would be that he’d lost his dog. Umbra was pretty big, though. Surely, someone would have spotted him somewhere, right?

Just as he resolved to ask around rather than continue the search on his own, the sound of a canine’s whine drifted to him on the breeze. For a second, he thought he had to be imagining it; no one else seemed to notice or look around, and it sounded too far away for him to have heard over the din. Still, he pushed through the crowd with a few muttered apologies until he was finally free, emerging in the space between Takka’s and the caravan. Never let anyone say that he wasn’t willing to take a chance!

One that he wished he hadn’t, after all.

As he rounded the corner and the area behind the caravan came into view, Talcott broke into a run with Umbra’s name on his lips. King Noctis’s dog was collapsed sideways on the ground, his legs flung out at an awkward angle even for a sleeping pet. Something in the back of his mind whispered words to him that he didn’t want to listen to—that he _refused_ to believe.

“Umbra?” he called quietly as he fell to his knees beside the dog. “Hey, come on, boy. Time to wake up.”

Nothing.

“C’mon, Umbra! Y-You’ve… You’ve gotta get up. King Noctis will be back soon, and he’ll be so happy to see you. But you’ve gotta get up!”

His increasing desperation had no effect whatsoever; burying his hands in the dog’s fur and shaking _hard_ didn’t rouse him. Umbra lay just as still as when he’d first caught sight of his prone form.

Talcott didn’t give up right away. He shook and he called and he even cried a little bit—but it was no use. There was no ignoring the way Umbra’s chest didn’t rise and fall or the lack of a pulse when he pressed his fingers to the spot near the dog’s elbow where he should have felt a heartbeat. As his tears of grief began to flow faster and he hugged Umbra’s body—still warm—tightly to his chest, all he could think was that he had failed his king.

Umbra was dead. The one thing he had been trusted to protect was gone. His Majesty’s dog had faded away with the coming of the dawn, waiting for the master he would never see to return for him.

 

***

 

Thirty years ago, a baby was born. They named him for the night, but Cor knew that he shone brighter than the sun in his parents’ eyes. That tiny boy, with his piercing blue eyes and little tuft of black hair, was destined to ascend the throne of Lucis just as generations of his ancestors had done before him.

Twenty-five years ago, the unthinkable had happened.

The prophecy foretelling of the King of Light’s ascension was known throughout the kingdom, not simply within the confines of the royal family. It spoke of a plague, an insatiable malice that would thrive and bring the world to ruin. When that happened and everything fell to darkness, the ancient words decreed that the king would rise to bring back the light. For centuries, the story was told and retold until most of Lucis knew it by heart; even those in neighboring kingdoms were cognizant of its meaning. Perhaps that was one of the reasons why the empire had taken particular care to destroy Lucis as thoroughly as they possibly could: it may very well have been their hope that the King of Kings would never come to power. Who else would then be able to stop them from creating the abominations they dubbed _technology_?

Although the people rejoiced and kept faith in the idea that a savior would one day appear to deliver them from the dangers that lurked in the shadows, they had no idea that such salvation came at a price. Only the royal family and their most trusted retainers were aware of the cost; the lore was passed down verbally, never written lest it fall into the wrong hands.

For a while, it didn’t seem to matter. Cor was fortunate to have served two noble rulers, both of whom were tasked with defending their kingdom so that the prophesied king would have something to save. The majority of his life was spent in their company, climbing through the ranks until he could ascend no higher. It was at that time, when he had finally gained the implicit trust of his monarch—both of them—that he learned the truth.

He had stood atop the Citadel steps that morning, watching as the king held his too young son in his arms and wept. It appeared as if he would never move from the spot where he leaned up against the Regalia like his legs wouldn’t hold his weight with Noctis asleep against his chest. When he finally did, it was with a burden heavier than even the Wall bearing down upon his steps. Cor had asked, and King Regis had answered.

Noctis, the light of the king’s soul, was destined to be the Chosen King of legend.

 _Doomed_ was the more accurate description.

It was a well-kept secret, one that the monarchs of Lucis had played close to their chests, that the King of Kings would never rule. The Astrals and their Crystal had decreed that only through sacrifice would humanity know peace. At first, that was hardly a surprise: Cor had been there to watch as the Ring of the Lucii and the Wall drained two kings of their lives, their vitality. That, he had thought, was the ultimate sacrifice—to die a slow and painful death for the sake of protecting one’s kingdom.

Then he looked upon this bright and smiling boy who knew not what lay ahead of him in life and realized that he was a fool. King Regis, and King Mors before him, had gotten to _live_. Even if only for a short while, their existence had meaning.

What meaning was there in cursing a child to die?

Twenty-two years ago, he very nearly had, and it was neither in service to his people nor to bring back some lost light. It was but more senseless bloodshed, this time with Noctis caught in the middle. King Regis had been devastated; the entire Citadel was in an uproar with the terrifying prospect of the heir to the throne of Lucis preceding his father into death the way no child should. Those months had been difficult, and Cor did what he could to support both king and prince to the fullest extent of his power. But the niggling thought remained in the back of his head—they were healing the prince to do what? Send him off to the slaughter but a few years later? It felt like preserving a cherished pet despite the knowledge that his suffering would be tenfold.

For twelve years, however, Cor held his tongue and did his duty to both king and country. He oversaw Noctis’s training, as well as countless others who would be tasked with serving him. It was Cor who helped Clarus shape Gladio into a worthy Shield; it was Cor who trained Ignis when a boy destined to be but an advisor decided that that was hardly enough. Cor had been there when Prompto came bumbling in, bringing with him no particular talent besides that which he learned from video games but determined to protect his friend and liege regardless.

It was Cor who had stepped forward when the king’s legs were cut out from under him by a traitor to guide his son to his death. And what a fine job he had done.

For the past ten years, all that was left was to prepare for what was to come _after_ —after the sun returned, after humanity could come out of hiding, after the daemons were eradicated. After there was no longer anyone to sit upon the throne of Lucis.

That time was not spent in idle contemplation of his role in the king’s demise, much as a lesser man would have been tempted to do so. He had not earned his epithet by resting on his laurels. Someone had to lead, and with the king’s retinue grieving his absence, that burden fell to another. So, Cor had been busy: educating Talcott, assisting Ignis in relearning what had once been second nature, aiding Iris in becoming the daemon slayer she’d always been beneath the frills of youth. He’d lost track of how many sleepless nights he’d spent conferring with the former mercenary who had once been as feared as she was now loved, organizing the hunters into something resembling a functional military to protect the civilians who could not do it themselves.

All things considered, he thought they’d been as successful as anyone could hope for. Thousands, perhaps millions, had been rescued around the world and brought to Lestallum to wait out the long night. The few remaining members of the Crownsguard who had not perished in the process saw to it that homes were provided, food ensured, and all the comforts that could be afforded _were_.

Cor had been blessed with the time to watch the children he had once supervised outgrow their need for him. Talcott, young but wise beyond his years, had dedicated his life to the study of Lucis and making it a kingdom that Jared would be proud of. Ignis, Gladio, and Prompto were more than worthy of their titles and the duties they would be expected to uphold. Iris had grown into a fine woman, capable of hunting with greater might than the most powerful hunters. (There were some things that did not change, however, like Gladio’s insistence that defeating the Blademaster made him a step above the rest and his sister daring him to a duel. It warmed his heart to see.)

Thirty years had passed, three decades of suffering and perseverance in the hopes of creating a brighter future. Thirty years had passed, plenty of time for him to prepare for the unimaginable.

And yet, when the daemons vanished and Iris pointed towards the horizon with tears in her eyes that he simply could not shed, it felt as though no time had passed at all. Cor was still that young man, eager to fight and still so naïve. He was not ready. He would never be ready.

With a deep breath and a heavy heart, Cor turned to watch as the sun rose into its own throne and set on the one who must have done so during the night. His eyes narrowed at the sudden luminescence, unaccustomed to the once commonplace sight of their salvation. And as he stood there to witness the dawn ushering in a new era of the world, he prepared to mourn yet another king he could not save.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: It's Umbra. ;~; Just as Pryna died with Luna (per a conversation with the servant in Tenebrae), it appears that Umbra dies with Noct as we see him at the Citadel in the afterlife. 
> 
> One more left. Thank you to those who left such kind feedback on the last chapter. This is a very difficult story to write for the same reasons it's a tough one to read. I appreciate hearing your thoughts, even if they are just incoherent sobbing.


	3. Head High, Carry On

They used the coronation decorations. It wasn’t like they were going to get another chance.

Gladio had to admit that the place looked good even if the wall beside the throne was still blown out. They’d done what they could to get rid of the rubble and clear the area; it would be a while before they were able to repair all the damage done to the Citadel, though. It wasn’t that there was a _lot_ of it—which was pretty damn surprising, all things considered—but they didn’t exactly have all the equipment they’d need for some huge construction project. So, like the growing list of shit that needed to be fixed before Insomnia would be fully restored to its former glory, that would have to wait.

Still, they’d done the best they could with what they had available. Ignis, Prompto, and whoever they could get to help, anyway—Gladio had been…occupied elsewhere. This was the first he was seeing of it, and although it was as stunning as it would have been were everything put to the use it was meant for, there was a tragic feel to it.

He tried to force back thoughts that this _was_ what they were designed for, that the king had known and had these decorations created purely for this moment. Now wasn’t the time.

Instead, he made himself appreciate how great the place looked. Fit for a king, as it were, with the tapestry emblazoned with Noct’s name as the focal point. They’d gotten that damn Crystal out of here, which Gladio was relieved to see; he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stand the sight of it, not when he was too familiar with everything that it represented. The twin red carpets leading down the aisle and up the stairs towards the throne, flowers trailing over the balconies where the council once sat, white drapery framing the display from the ceiling—it was regal, bathed in sunlight where it filtered in through the broken window.

All in all, it was a fine place for the royal tomb of the last king of Lucis.

In a perfect world, there would have been a huge ceremony packed with people that had come to pay their respects to the king who saved all their asses and brought back the light of day. Gladio could practically see it now: the throne room filled until it was standing room only, the courtyard outside bursting with grieving citizens of every nation in Eos. The streets would have been quiet. A representative of the House Fleuret would have been here to read the customary bullshit about finding peace after the end and going to better places. Ignis would have obsessed over every last detail (not that he hadn’t already, but still, there’d be a huge staff to keep in line); Prompto would have been running around like an idiot making sure all the last-minute affairs were seen to. The Citadel would have been brimming with life, and everyone would have devoted their now daemon-free time to giving their king the send-off he deserved.

Would have, would have, _would have_.

But it wasn’t a perfect world, so quality had to come before quantity. There was no one outside. The halls of the Citadel were as silent as they had been the night that they’d lost and gained everything in the span of a single instant. Inside the throne room, there were only a handful of mourners who would witness the ceremony that should have been an international event. Their small numbers didn’t faze Gladio, though. If anything, he thought it was more appropriate. Noct wouldn’t have wanted a huge shindig full of people crying and pretending that they knew him. Nah, he’d rather have something simple with the people he cared about and who gave a shit about him—not the prince or the king or whoever they thought he was, but _Noctis_.

The few remaining members of the Crownsguard were there, standing at the back of the chamber closest to the door with stoic expressions. They were the ones who’d watched Noct grow up, protected him with their lives, and literally given up everything for him. Right in the middle of them stood Libertus Ostium, the last living Kingsglaive operative. Well, the only one who wasn’t a traitor, apparently. Gladio couldn’t say he knew the guy well, but the fact that he’d come was comforting. There hadn’t been time or resources for a funeral when King Regis died, and it wasn’t like anyone had recovered his body. (Gladio wasn’t counting the asshole who stole it.) The fact that he’d come for Noct was a hell of a gesture—somebody from the Kingsglaive _should_ be there for their king.

Just ahead were all the people who’d gotten them this far. Aranea was there with Biggs and Wedge, her chin held high as always. Someone had brought Cid a chair, but the second the doors opened, Cindy and Weskham helped him to his feet. Gone was the skeptical disdain he’d had for Noct when they first met that day in Hammerhead; he stood as straight as he could, and if Gladio didn’t know any better, he would have thought Cid would salute. Iris stood on his other side, doing her best not to cry even though he could see the tears welling in her eyes and threatening to spill over. No matter how many daemons she’d slayed, no matter how many monikers she’d earned, she was still that same little girl who’d befriended a prince purely because her big brother was kind of an ass. Talcott had tears streaming down his face, not bothering to stem the flow the way others were. That kid never did have any shame.

At the foot of the steps leading up to the dais, Cor was waiting for him. He’d managed to scrounge up his formal Crownsguard attire somewhere and was probably the only one of them who looked like they belonged here. There was an unfathomable sadness in his eyes that made Gladio’s heart stutter in his chest, but the rest of him may as well have been carved out of stone. Just like Gladio, he was here to perform a duty.

They were the sentinels, the keepers of the king in life and in death.

It was the only reason Gladio was still alive.

While everyone else had been preparing for this moment, to say their final goodbyes and then go about their lives because they _could_ , he’d been doing that duty. His responsibility didn’t perish with his charge. Noct would have been pissed if he’d given up when there were still so many people who needed protecting—people Noct had _died_ to keep alive so that others could do so. Maybe he’d been selfish that night, thinking that he could give up just because he’d failed in his foremost responsibility. Now, though, he’d had time to think. To reflect.

To remember.

A Shield went through rigorous training, but it wasn’t just for the sake of their physical strength. There was an indoctrination process, one where you learned exactly what was expected of you in every contingency.

 _Every_ contingency.

 _“In the event that a Shield should outlive his king, his honor will be greatly diminished, for it is the duty of every Shield to guard his king with his own life,”_ his instructors and his books—his own _father_ —had drilled into his head. _“It is the expectation that if the king is dead, his Shield preceded him into the afterlife to watch over his soul after it makes the crossing. The bond between Shield and king is unbreakable by the trials of life or death; their beings, their souls, their existences are woven together, forsaking all others for all time. The duty of a Shield is to sacrifice all for his king: friends, family, limb, and life. It is to be loyal and true even in the face of adversity; it is to support and to empower the hand of his king without fail. The duty of a Shield is to be more than a man, more than a guardian, more than a brother. In the event that the king should perish while his Shield yet lives, the duty of the latter is not negated, and the bond between them remains unbroken. In the event that the king should perish while his Shield yet lives, it remains his duty to protect his king in body and in spirit until such time that the Shield may join him.”_

Those words replayed in his mind, weighing him down as heavily as Noct’s body in his arms as Gladio accompanied him to his final resting place. They’d been playing on repeat ever since they learned what bringing back the light really meant, and he had stopped at nothing to do his duty to the best of his ability, even if he hadn’t done such a great job of interpreting what that meant back in the day.

It was Gladio who had carried Noct from the throne room, who had seen him safely to his long-abandoned chambers in the Citadel.

It was Gladio who had sat with his king—his brother—for two days while Ignis and Prompto had contacted everyone who mattered and seen to the funeral arrangements.

It was Gladio who had observed in silence as Ignis completed his final responsibility as the king’s chamberlain: to dress him for his last appearance in the uniform that had escorted him to functions and meetings and matters of state.

It was Gladio who had taken the king gently into his arms, hugging him tightly to his chest with Noct’s head tucked beneath his chin, and now carried him to the last bed he would ever oversleep in.

There was no excuse for him to feel so unprepared, so reluctant to lay Noct carefully on the stone bier and step back. The Blademaster had warned him years ago, when he was young and stupid and too scared to see it for what it was, that his charge would be the last king of Lucis with no heirs to succeed him. It still gutted Gladio to watch Cor’s mouth move with the final rites that preceded every king into oblivion, even if the blood pounding in his ears made it so that he couldn’t hear the words themselves. Ignis and Prompto stood opposite him, the latter crying noiselessly as he stared at Noct while the former pressed a hand to his back. Gladio was distantly comforted that, by the thought that they weren’t ready either.

There was still so much Gladio wanted to say, words that he hadn’t gotten out that last night at camp. It figured: he was always on Noct’s ass about speaking instead of leaving them in the dark, whether it hurt or not. Looked like he never really took his own advice. If he did, he would have pulled Noct aside that night— _any_ night before the end—and told him in plain words that he was sorry for all the times he’d failed in his duty and the one time he would when it mattered the most. He would’ve dropped to his knee and sworn fealty again to the man who had made a king out of the boy who had once been a reluctant prince. He would have told him that he was every bit the king his father wanted him to be.

But that ship had sailed, and Cor was turning towards Noct with such an expression of pain that Gladio was surprised the Marshal was still standing. And then he wasn’t—Cor lowered himself to one knee, placing a hand on the edge of the bier and bowing his head. Prompto was the next to follow, then Ignis.

For a heartbeat, Gladio was frozen in place, unable to accept that this was it. Everyone was on the floor, their heads lowered in deference to their king, and he just stood there like an idiot because he _wasn’t ready_. Then his body was moving of its own accord, a product of all the training and preparation that had brought him here.

It happened immediately: the final burst of magic the line of Lucis had to offer. As soon as Gladio’s hand joined the others at Noct’s side, there was a crackling in the atmosphere like the air before a storm. He wasn’t supposed to raise his head, wasn’t supposed to watch—but he was Noct’s Shield, damn it. Customs and manners could go to hell. His eyes flew open to witness the explosion of blue flame around his charge that simmered in the morning sunlight until, as it was extinguished mere seconds later, it left behind a king carved of stone.

After that, everything was a distant blur. Gladio didn’t see everyone cast their final glances at the dais as they left the throne room for the last time; he didn’t register the way Ignis was hugging Prompto to his side in an effort to seek and receive comfort in equal measures. All that existed was the statue that had once been his whole world—even if it _was_ a pain in the ass half the time. Those eyes that were now cemented shut had once glared at him from the floor of the training room when they’d gotten the shit kicked out of them because they didn’t know how to fight yet. Those hands that were gently folded over his stomach used to grab onto Gladio’s shoulder to give him an extra push when his Shield would launch him into an aerial attack, steady and so very trusting. Those lips that were frozen in time had frequently twisted into a sarcastic little smirk with the knowledge that he was about to pluck on Gladio’s last nerve for fun.

Never again.

A different hand touched his shoulder after a while, long-fingered and less bony than the sensation that would forever haunt his senses. Ignis’s voice was gentle and filled with pain when he whispered, “Gladio… It’s time.”

Time… God, he hated it.

He couldn’t argue, though, or dig for reasons to stay. The chamber was empty; the sun was rapidly approaching the center of the sky.

There was a kingdom to rebuild, people to protect, jobs to do.

It _was_ time.

When Gladio maneuvered himself to his feet, his eyes fell on the tiny, familiar metal key that Ignis was holding out for him to do the honors. It was _that_ that made this all the more real. So innocent, yet it meant so much every time Noct had used it to access the tombs of his ancestors and gain their power. No one would have to do that anymore; his charge hadn’t even been buried with a weapon. King Regis’s sword was laid across the armrests of the throne, given its own place of honor to watch over his son for all eternity. A sword within the tomb, and a Shield right outside. Poetic.

Technically, they weren’t supposed to look back as they trudged down the aisle towards the door. Another stupid custom that somebody thought up to symbolize moving forward and all that crap. It didn’t matter anymore, though, and Gladio didn’t particularly care about that rule in the first place. Who was going to get on his case for it?

So, as they reached the door and stepped out into the antechamber, Gladio paused with his fist closed tightly around the key. He would be back, he reminded himself. One day, when time decided it was done putting up with him, this door would open again just as it had for generations of Amicitia men before him. He’d make damn sure of it.

With that thought in mind, he turned to offer his silent promise to both bier and throne—that he would always be here—

And stopped dead.

_…It can’t be…_

“Gladio?” Prompto sniffled behind his stiffened back. “What’s up?”

In the split second it took for him to glance at the others, still waiting for him outside, and then back up at the throne, what he’d been _positive_ was there had vanished. For all he knew, it had never been there to begin with. A trick of the light or the mind or…something.

It still brought a tiny smile to Gladio’s face, the first in two days.

“Nothin’,” he murmured, swinging the door shut and locking it one last time. “Just thought I saw something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My only note for this chapter is regarding the burial of kings and their Shields. I found it interesting that in every royal tomb (except the defunct one at Cauthess), there are statues of men carrying shields on every wall. Personally, I thought that might mean that Shields were typically buried with their kings; they do spend their entire lives devoted to their protection, after all. Oh, and yes: Gladio was seeing at the end what we see after the credits. :)
> 
> And that, everybody, is the end of the series. It's a little surreal to write this scene; it's the first one that I thought of back when I started this series, and I've been waiting seven months to write it. I would have liked to end this series on a happier note, but when I knew that I was going to write this, there was nowhere else to put it but the end. 
> 
> To everyone who has read these, thank you for sticking with me. I know that not all of these stories have been the easiest to make it through, particularly this one. To those of you who have taken the time to leave kudos or comments, I'd especially like to thank you for the feedback. I've said it before and I'll say it again: knowing what you think means the world to me. I appreciate all the time you've put in to reading this series; it makes every night I thought I was too tired to write, every day I wasn't sure my writing was even good enough to bother posting here, every tear shed in the process so very worth it. I hope that you'll either subscribe to me here, follow me on Tumblr (theasset6.tumblr.com), or watch my page for more stories as there is no way I'm anywhere near done writing about these boys. 
> 
> Thank you again, and for the last time: walk tall, my friends. :)

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you for reading! 
> 
> For more Final Fantasy XV, follow me on Tumblr: theasset6.tumblr.com


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